


echoes are fading away

by zenithaurora



Series: Aang Week [5]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Aang Week 2021, Air Nomad Genocide (Avatar), Air Temples (Avatar), Gen, No Dialogue, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29699199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenithaurora/pseuds/zenithaurora
Summary: Memories spent here were fading like phantoms desperately grasping on the gaps left on the weather-torn walls and the confinements of his mind, the only place left in the world that remembered the Air Nomads as they used to be.Or Aang visits the Southern Air Temple to begin the restoration.
Series: Aang Week [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174718
Kudos: 7





	echoes are fading away

**Author's Note:**

> could be seen as a prequel to "what died didn't stay dead".

It started with one conversation at Fire Nation Palace. He had endured endless conversations at meetings before, but this one topic, the one about reparations, was the one to perk up his ears and catch his full and undivided attention. After the war had ended, he understood and accepted that most, if not all of the financial resources were meant for reparations towards the Earth Kingdom and the Water Tribes. He kept his mouth shut, acknowledging that people were currently suffering and that they needed as much financial aid as possible to mitigate the havoc caused by the war that had been unleashed on the world for the past one hundred years. Nevertheless, Zuko was quick to reassure him that they were going to financially sustain the restoration of the Air Nomads culture, and as he found out that day, he was faithful to his words.

After choosing a selected group of people to come with him to the Southern Air Temple, they left the lands of the Fire Nation and headed to his old home. Trepidation and dread settled on the pit of his stomach during the length of the trip, but he told himself that it was necessary so he could brave for whatever his eyes were going to see. It had been years since the last time he had been there, but he could already tell the air was different, bound by the earth and inert. The aroma of the fruit trees and hay laying in the stables did not hit his senses like it used to. He helped the group getting down from Appa and left them to their own devices so he could explore his old home by himself.

The first glimmers of sunbeams pierced through an overcast sky, a soft, almost non-existent glow over the cobbled floor. The light shone on the debris scattered over the place and tiny rays made their way through the rifts of the time-worn stone walls covered with moss. Insects crawled between the crevices of the loose slabs and Momo launched himself forward to catch one. He returned to his shoulder and he patted his head.

It was just the second time he had come here ever since the war had ended. The first time they were too busy collecting the remains of past friends and acquaintances to bother cleaning and reforming the ruins of the temple. However, years had passed and he had a job to do; it would not be possible to restore his culture if he neglected this responsibility. He turned his head to look at the small group of people he had brought with him on top of Appa: four earthbenders to assess the damage and determine how they would proceed with the restoration, and two accountants from the Fire Nation to estimate the cost of the reparations. He almost snorted at the look of their eyes going wide as saucers when they made the calculation of the money they would have to spend. _And this only one temple; wait for the next three,_ he mused sardonically.

His footsteps got heavier as he walked in direction to the sanctuary, his feet sometimes stumbling with loose rocks and the hollow spaces on the floor caused by the pass of time. He brushed the carving on the walls with the barely-there touch of his fingertips, scared that his calloused palms would add to the further erosion of the fading engraving. Stories captured in motionless art, losing their battle for their existence against the weather conditions; so many lessons taught facing their history written on these walls. _We are going to need detail-oriented sculptors for these_ , he thought absentmindedly.

The leaves from the trees did not steer; the air was still. It was never supposed to be so quiet and stagnant up here in the mountains. Autumn orange leaves covered the cobbled floor as well as the dusty ground. Next to the airball arena, leaves had accumulated on one spot of the narrow stream, painting the water a rusted color. He used his staff to eliminate the obtrusion, and the current flew free. He wrinkled his nose at the sickly-sweet putrid odor as a single ray of honeyed sunlight poured over a small patch of unpaved ground that contained a few abandoned fruit trees and overgrown fungus. A fleeting memory crossed through his brain of children collecting fruits before noon to be eaten after dinner and the hair on the nape of his neck stood up. He tried to shake that sensation away, but he could not deny the effect that seeing his old home, trashed into nothing, consumed by the weather and the abandonment, was having on him.

Every time he shifted his eyes, at every corner covered by tangle of vines, every rubble hiding behind overgrown weeds, every decomposing carcass of an ancient animal, there was a fleeting memory. Washing the sky bison with Sonam, scrubbing the tiles with Tsering, soaring high in their gliders with Chogden, teaming up in airball with Dechen, meditation under the now cut-in-half banyan tree with Monk Pasang, learning new movements with Monk Tashi, baking with Monk Gyatso. Memories spent here were fading like phantoms desperately grasping on the gaps left on the weather-torn walls and the confinements of his mind, the only place left in the world that remembered the Air Nomads as they used to be. People were becoming faceless and happenings were blurring. Ghosts haunted the halls, and the bridges, and the playgrounds, and the stables, imploring for a closure of what took place here.

He stood with his back straight, and languidly walked to the yard where he has left Appa to rest. He was going to wait for the others while they were finishing their job, but did not thought he was capable of walking through the place anymore. Aang did not think it could ever be possible to give the rest and peace they deserved, but that was not going to stop him from trying.

**Author's Note:**

> Title based on 'Silhouette' by Aquilo.


End file.
